Guns, Murder, and Romances
by QueenThirteen
Summary: Even with the poison, the murder, the crime, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes know that they will always have one thing: The other's back.       Holmes/Watson. Don't like? Don't read. KTHX.
1. The Winner

Guns, Murder, and Romances

TITLE: Guns, Murder, and Romances  
GENRE: Sherlock Holmes  
PAIRING: Eventual Holmes/Watson  
WARNINGS: None yet. ;)

A/N: I've decided to post this, it was written a pretty long time ago with my friend. That's why, in some of the later chapters, it skips from centering on Watson back to Holmes, to Watson, to Holmes, etc. :)

Hope you all like this. Eventual Holmes/Watson action. 3

* * *

He knew it was far too late to travel out into the London streets. But, knowing him, he of course did it anyway. He grabbed his overcoat briskly as he passed mounds of soiled clothes (most of which were not his), crumpled newspapers holding the typical London headlines, and many, upon many, idea sheets and notes that were important at the time and now long forgotten. As he descended the stairs with an agility that only he, himself, possessed and slipped on his coat while doing so, he had a small little thought in the back of his head.

"_John told you not to do this, you know..."_ it reminded him with a small hint of sarcasm. He merely rolled his eyes at it and pushed away back into the other, in his opinion, insignificant thoughts.

Besides, he was invincible. Nothing could touch him.

The landlady of his apartment building said something to him faintly as he passed her, putting on his hat. He took no notice. Whether or not he was particularly irritable that evening or just buzzed off of whatever needle he could possibly find, the woman did not know. Nor, did she care.

He stepped out into the streets, his wrinkled but still rather nice-looking dress pants worn for about the seventh time that week. His chocolate-colored, slightly wavy hair was tucked behind his ears, and he scratched the stubble on his chin as the London air whipped into his overcoat, threatening to send a chill down his spine. He had a very fierce, indignant face and an expressive one, too, with the deepest, most swimming chocolate eyes that anyone had ever seen. He was smaller in frame for a man, but not by any means small in character or strength; he could take out men ten times his size if he so desired.

That being said, he had muscles to prove it. He was toned all over, and his confident, long stride and charismatic demeanor was instantly respected. Once known, however, it was quite the opposite with most relations.

He glanced across the street where two interesting-looking, shifty characters were watching him pass. He let a breath of hot air make steam around him as he turned another corner. He knew from experience that acknowledgement only provoked a London beggar even more.

A carriage pulled down the narrow streets and almost knocked him into the gutter, causing him to finally walk on the sidewalk, next to the small apartments and bakeries, all closed and dark. He checked his pocket watch and turned a final left, ending up right in front of a large, nondescript building with lots of boisterous noise emitting from its belly.

The lights were dim inside the old warehouse, and a makeshift ring had been set up where men and women, mainly prostitutes, watched the happenings with excitement. Bills and coins flew everywhere as they screamed in their drunken stupors, watching with almost an impressive intensity.

The man snaked his way into the crowd, picking out the burgundy top hat immediately. He grasped the man on the shoulder, turning him around and shaking his hand.

"And look who it is!" exclaimed the top hat man in his heavy Cockney accent, shaking the man's hand a little too hard than necessary. "The star of the hour!"

If it wasn't for the man's excellent hearing skills, he wouldn't have picked up any of that over the clamor around him. "Yes," he replied, giving a rather unenthusiastic smile. "And I suspect you'll be treating yourself to dinner tonight, thanks to me." Although it was his choice to be there, he didn't like to interact with the man... Well, basically anyone, if he could help it.

The man with the top hat, Richard Norton was his name, beamed. "Quite right, sir. Would you like the next round?" he asked with a knowing smile.

"Yes," the man said, slipping off his coat and handing it to Norton. He took of his hat, too, and revealed a slightly grimy, off-colored white flannel shirt that had been ripped in various places, rolled up to the elbow, and half-way buttoned. One suspender was triumphantly on his shoulder, and the other fell lazily, sadly to the side. "The next round."

"How many tonight, pray tell?" Norton asked, rather nonchalantly.

"Six," the man responded, not even looking at the man with the top hat as he replied. The man turned to him, rather surprised.

"Six! Well, I wish you the best of luck."

"No, you don't. You just want your money."

After an uproar about ten minutes later, the man began to push his way deeper into the crowd. The bets began. He slung his legs over the low wall and into the pit, a cloud of dirty, London-esque dust rising around him like a curtain. Another man, at least a hundred pounds heavier (and most of that being muscle), entered the ring, as well. He was mean-looking, strong, and snarling like a mad dog.

He made the man look like a little girl. The man, however, began to smirk a knowing smirk. "My boy," he said softly, knowing that the other man would most likely not comprehend what he was saying over the uproarious yelling. "Meet your maker."

...Illegal, underground boxing.

Money. Drugs. Alcohol. Sweat. Blood.

The bell rang. The fight began.

The larger man, and the man that almost everyone had bet their money on, began to circle the dusty ring, cracking his oversized knuckles. He began to scowl deeper when he saw the 'shrimp' just standing there, watching him calmly.

"Are you sure you don't want to give up when you have the chance?" the smaller man said with a hint of sing-song in his voice, raising a dark eyebrow. When the obvious answer was no, the smaller man held up six fingers. "Six, my boy. Six is the lucky number tonight.

_Crunch._ The larger man gave the smaller a mean, right hook in the jaw, sending his whole frame ratcheting backwards into the hard wall of the ring. The men yelled stupidly, raising their fists, filled with betted money, in the clammy, overheated air.

The smaller man cracked his neck back into place, blinking. "I don't think that you should—"

_Plack!_ The larger man's fist connected with his stomach, causing him to double over in pain as the oxygen failed him, leaving him slightly lightheaded and the room spinning.

The large man began to get cocky. "He's all talk, eh, boys?" he laughed towards the crowd, who responded happily. They were all just merely excited about the possibility of bloodshed and their seemingly guaranteed extra rum money.

Everyone in the crowd who had betted on the smaller man (which was a ground-breaking total of two out of the whole some two hundred of them), looked angry and worried. The man in the burgundy hat, however, just watched calmly, slowly and methodically shaking his head back and forth. "What a shame..." he whispered to the ring, over the greasy heads surrounding him. "What a pity, what a shame, what a shame..."

What the other man (and basically everyone else in the large, musty room) did not know was that he was already caught. Already unconscious. Already lost.

Check mate. Winner. Loser.

The man's mind was like a large, complicated, magnificent machine, and it was this that he relied on heavily. Anyone who knew him would swear he had one of the most brilliant minds in London. And that very brain, the high-powered, deductive machine, was plotting every move before his opponent even considered it.

His mind was in overdrive, thinking about exactly what he was about to do before he did it. Suddenly, and without warning, the unsuspecting opponent began to realize the tables had turned.

_Hit him in the abdomen, lower right side, block out his main defenses and get him doubled over..._

BAM! The smaller man made an impressively hard punch into the larger man's abdomen, sending him doubling over and hearing the air whoosh out of his lungs like a well-oiled lamp being blown out.

_Next the chest, send him against the wall for strategic purposes._

And before even a hint of hesitation, a round-house kick in the chest, sending his opponent flying towards the wall and hitting it with a sickening crack.

_The upper jaw._

And while he was down, the man came up from under him, hitting him on the jaw and almost seeing things in slow motion as blood gushed everywhere from the now dislocated, broken, bleeding mouth.

_The face._

Crack! There went the nose.

_The groin._

He finally kicked him right where it counts and sent him falling, defenseless to the ground, twitching in the dirt. His opponent's eyes fluttered, trying to keep a grip on the black that was sure to be engulfing him.

_The stomach._

"Six blows, you bastard. No more, no less," the man said in a low, controlled voice. And the sixth blow came. He delivered a sharp, painful blow in the stomach, sending him over the edge into the sea of darkness that the smaller man knew too well.

_The winner._

_

* * *

_

The crowd was as silent as the Grim himself. The man's muscles heaved and so did his chest, a single scratch of blood running down his forehead. But other than that, he was completely unharmed. The crowd stared at him angrily, their money gone, their hope for that night gone, and their bets lost. The man looked around the ring before catching his coat and hat from Norton and exiting the rink with not even a backwards glance.

Back out into the streets, the dirty, dark London streets, the man walked; his coat and white shirt over his shoulder and his suspenders hanging dejectedly by his side. His muscles would twitch every now and then, and he rotated his shoulders as he walked back through the narrow runways, adrenaline rushing through his body like the drugs he clung to when he had no one there with him.

_Which was,_ he admitted, _not a lot of the time._

_But still,_ he thought to himself as he walked briskly, letting the cold air raise the dark hair on his arms and his pale skin almost glowing in the moonlight. _They help you. You know they all help you..._

He crossed the street and into the main foyer of his building, seeing the woman he had ignored earlier. "Ah, good evening Mrs. Kennedy," he said with a hint of underlying unpleasantness, tipping his hat to her.

"Ah, good evening yourself, you brute!" she responded with venom, waving him upstairs. They stared at each other for a beat, and then they both gave out and smiled. "You need to go upstairs, m'lad, you got the Doctor here. He didn' look so happy, neither."

The man's face fell. "He's not supposed to be here until—" He couldn't help but sigh. Of course the good Doctor would know what he was up to. Because even though his deductive reasoning skills were the sharpest in the whole world, most likely, and his mind like a sharp blade, the Doctor was quite the competition.

Besides, he had taught John everything he knew, anyway, and now it was coming back to haunt him.

He ascended the stairs, struggling to get his grimy shirt back on and slipping on his coat haphazardly, dropping his hat. He scooped it up in one fluid motion and finally arrived at his apartment, 221b.

He pulled out a key out of his pocket and began to push it up to the lock.

He fell forward slightly when the door was wrenched open by none other than his faithful companion and Doctor. He kept his hand outstretched with the key, turning it as if the lock was still there.

"Well! How incredibly nice to see you here tonight, Watson," he said fakely, smiling all the while the smile that the Doctor knew so well.

Watson looked as if he had been furious only a moment before, but when he saw his friend's swollen jaw and the blood slowly flowing down his face, he sighed and said nothing, allowing him to enter his apartment and plop down into the armchair by the fire.

"You know I don't approve of that, Holmes..." he said quietly, leaning against a relatively free wall (a.k.a. one that had only a broken record player, about a dozen books, a dried brown liquid stuck to it, and at least seventy papers all tacked in various positions on top of each other, ripped and stained).

Yes, for Sherlock Holmes, that was a relatively free wall.

"At least you're still alive, for God's sake!" Watson sighed, puffing on his pipe as he examined his friend, looking a little more pale and sickly than usual. _But who could really tell? _he wondered with a small exhale. _You just worry too much. He's a grown man, for Christ's sakes, not a child!_

"I behave much like a reckless child, correct?" laughed Holmes from his spot by the fire, almost mocking his friend, and lighting a match and striking up his pipe like his friend had done moments before.

"What?" Watson stammered, looking startled.

"You were just chastising yourself, I could tell from your expression. And from the way you were biting your cheek in slight frustration, I knew it had to do with me. And what would you chastise yourself about me? Caring too much. And you always say that I am a grown man, not a child."

"And so, my dear Watson, I have upped you again. Better luck next time."

Watson bit down on the pipe, smiling at his friend and shaking his head. "You perplex me, Holmes."

"I perplex most. Now, were you just coming to see if I was alive or not, or do you have news?" he asked, crossing his legs and looking into the fire.

Watson said nothing.

"Come sit, Watson."

The Doctor felt relief for his comrade's instant change of subject. He crossed and sat in the mismatched armchair across from his friend and sighed. Watson almost always ended up spending most nights in Holmes' apartment, working on cases or being kept awake by the screeching of an out-of-tune violin or laying awake watching his friend's silhouette as he paced the ragged, dusty floorboards of 221b.

"Holmes, you shouldn't be involved in such reckless things."

Sherlock turned to gaze at him with his deep, chocolate eyes. "What do you call what we do every day? Is that not more reckless?"

"Yes, but that is for a _reason_, Holmes, not merely for fluctuating your own ego!" Watson exclaimed.

"I don't think we quite see eye-to-eye on this subject," Holmes said calmly, taking another breath of his pipe.

Watson scowled. That was Holmes's way of ignoring a comment of question: Stating the obvious. He only did it when around Watson, and when they were in an argument.

"Of course we don't see eye-to-eye on this, otherwise we wouldn't be fighting! Besides, you could've been—" Watson suddenly stopped talking, getting up and examining Holmes's forehead. Holmes raised his eyebrows, which caused the Doctor to click his tongue in annoyance and drag his friend towards the fire, the only proper light source in the whole apartment. He squinted as he scrutinized it.

"Whatever bastard you were fighting this time got a fingernail lodged into the tissues of your flesh, Holmes..." he said, sighing heavily. "And now it's become infected and is bleeding even more than usual. Do you see how this could be a very significant—"

"Just go get the tweezers, Watson."

Watson straightened and blew air out of his nose. "And where the _hell_ are the tweezers in all of this mess?" he snapped, looking around the broken bottles, flasks and jars along with papers, rotten food, and old pictures and trinkets that once meant something to Holmes.

"Oh, that's right. I don't think I own any tweezers. Ah, nonetheless."

* * *

Comments are loved! Thanks for reading! ~3 Shannon


	2. Over the Edge

A/N: Chapter two! I couldn't wait any longer, so I got right to work on this one. ;)

Loving the FF experience already, I hope I can get a bigger audience soon. The feedback is SOOO helpful.

Hope I meshed the different writing styles well enough. I'm rather happy with the outcome. YAY HOLMES THWUMPING!

* * *

Watson sighed again, inhaling through his pipe deeply, and then letting his breath out with a dreamy looking puff of smoke. He looked around at the ponderous wreckage of the room, and then turned to survey Holmes, who was beginning to pick at the fingernail embedded in his skin.

Holmes had found a near empty brandy bottle on a nearby end table, and had brought the dusty alcohol to his lips. His white face was seamed with lines of trouble, the slight hanging pouches under his closed eyes were leaden in color, the loose mouth drooped dolorously at the corners, and his prominent chin was unshaven. Collar and shirt bore the grimy appearance of a long journey, and his hair bristled unkempt from the well-shaped head. He caught Watson's surveillance and asked simply, "What is it, Watson?"

"Combination of absolute exhaustion, mere hunger and fatigue, and not to mention the brawl you just lay upon yourself, Holmes. You need to pull yourself together," criticized Watson, as he leaned over and put a finger on Home's feeble pulse, where the stream of life trickled thin and small. Holmes was barely paying attention. To his disappointment the brandy bottle was now completely empty, and there were no other means of letting go around the filthy room. In fact, the man seemed rather lost in thought.

"Holmes?" asked Watson, after a rather long pause.

There was another moment of brief silence, but then a manic glint returned to Holmes bright brown eyes. "Watson, one of these days I'm going to write a book about our little adventures. They keep coming, and do you ever just get an urge to... to remember every detail? Like you want to go back and live it again, even the danger? _Especially_ the danger?"

"My memory still serves me rather well," remarked Watson thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair and exhaling again.

"...Am I talented, Watson?"

"What do you think?"

Nothing.

"Well... You're a knowledge of regular literature; not much. Same goes for astronomy, politics, and philosophy... I'm sure you remember the Napoleon statuette case? You're knowledge of botany is decent, well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons in the least, though you know nothing of the practical garden. Your chemistry is profound, your knowledge of anatomy is accurate, but unsystematic. You have immense knowledge when it comes to sensational literature; you know every detail of every horror perpetuated in this century. After the dancing men case, I realized you are also an amazing cryptanalyst, you know over a hundred different ciphers. You can play the violin phenomenally, though my opinion of this may not always appear to be so, especially in the middle of the night. Boxing and swordsmanship is second nature to you, otherwise I wouldn't be here right now to discuss it with you. Also, I suppose you have good practical knowledge of British law."

"The way you put it makes it all cut and dry," drawled Holmes, inhaling the smoke from his pipe deeply, "and a simple 'yes' or 'no' would've sufficed," he added, fashioning a makeshift bandage from his shirt to cover his injuries. Already purple bruises were appearing on his chest and face.

"I see almost everything as cut and dry, Holmes. Something is, isn't, or is somewhere in between. There is nothing else," Watson said robotically, his eyes following the curve of Holme's jaw as it tightened in a grimace from his recently acquired injuries.

There was another long pause, as several clocks around the room ticked the seconds away, each one a little off, keeping most deep thinking from occurring.

"I need something _exciting_, Watson."

Watson nearly choked on his pipe. "Look what you just did merely twenty minutes ago! Look at all the cases we've had! And it's not like the glory days are over, Holmes. No, they're still here. We're right in the middle of them."

Holmes glanced at him fleetingly, as if the recent incident was nothing of the ordinary. Watson said something else, but Holmes was barely paying attention. The manic glint in his eye was still shining through because of his recent bout of excitement, but his adrenaline was slowly running out of his veins.

A silent beat passed between the two. Finally, Watson's concern for his companion took over. "Holmes, what happened this time?"

"The usual," he responded casually. "Large, over-sized man. Well-built, greasy type. Money, drugs, blood. A few right hooks caused the injuries, but in the end he learned his lesson. I'm lucky to be alive." The last remark, however, held such sarcasm that Watson sent a dark look his way. How utterly careless was he. It was selfish! To throw his life away when others really car—Ah, nonetheless.

"It wasn't luck," said Watson, flexing his knuckles. "You've always been an excellent boxer. Your size is what makes other people not so sure."

"It's satisfying to prove them wrong."

"I'm sure," laughed Watson, getting up from his chair and pacing around the room the best he could without tripping over any protruding object. He found a rather old, yellowing newspaper, labeled the London Times. On the front page was a drawing of the dancing men cipher, and then two rather poorly drawn portraits of Holmes and himself. There was a whole stack of newspapers near it, each with some allusion to a previous case. Watson shook his head with a smirk on his face as he came across one. He held the paper up for Holmes to see; it was an article about one of their rather less known cases.

"Remember this one?" asked Watson, a fond smile creeping over his features.

Holmes creased his brow, trying to think back to it. "Not particularly," he hummed, "But that was five years ago October, when I went through that addiction... pro—incident." Watson smirked. Holmes avoided using the term 'problem' as often as he possibly could. _Especially_ when it had to do with himself.

Watson shook his head, looking as if he were remembering a good time. "You really weren't yourself for that whole month. Kept spouting the most eloquent damn stuff I ever heard about life and good and evil. As I recall, you beat our criminal round the head with that lady's... oh, what was her name? Ms. Whitney. Nearly killed a man with her frying pan."

"It was all I had at the moment," said Holmes, though not defensively. He knew Watson didn't mind his methods too much. "Besides, it worked."

"It certainly did."

* * *

After a half hour more of conversation, Holmes got up and stretched his skinny frame like a cat, his body trembling in the effort. His chocolate hair glinted in the firelight of the fire crackling in their small fireplace. "Well, Watson, I'm going to retire for the evening," he said as he crossed the large apartment, a hint of an unplaced emotion hiding timidly under the inflection of his words. He crossed to the doorframe of one of the two bed chambers. Old, crusty papers crackled underfoot. "Goodnight."

Watson stood where he had stopped pacing and stared at Homes as he ripped off his shirt carelessly, showing a bruised but still beautiful, bare chest. He looked as though he was dying of a heat stroke, his body suddenly drenched in sweat. "You're _retiring?_" Watson repeated in awe. Holmes almost never went to bed of his own accord.

Holmes seemed frustrated and distracted. "Yes, that's what I said, Watson, Goo—" He was interrupted by a sudden burst of equilibrium spazzum, causing him to sway on his feet dangerously as hundreds of seemingly random images flashed through his brain painfully. His hands flew to his head instinctively, pressure building up right above his nose and eyebrows; pain.

Watson was at his side in an instant. "Holmes," he muttered breathlessly, a relatively instinctive and sturdy hand was on the small of Holmes's back, steadying him. "Holmes?" he repeated worriedly, placing his other hand on his shoulder. He received a low groan in response. Watson's face registered this. "Holmes, put your head between your knees. Sit down, sit down," he ordered, trying to stay calm but still getting the order of his instructions wrong, anyway. He lowered Holmes down onto the bed close by. His eyes were closed shut, and his fingers still pressed on his face as if to claw something out of it. He desperately tried to keep a grip on the world around him.

Everything swam crazily around him, sickening. Watson lowered him so that he was laying down; every word he was saying to him came across as a little too loud.

"Holmes, listen to me," Watson demanded in a low, professional voice, trying to keep his friend from bashing his face in. "What have you consumed in the last six hours?"

"Lots of gin..." Holmes murmured into his hands. "And..."

"And what Holmes? Did anyone give anything to you?" Watson asked frantically, putting a hand on his comrade's forehead.

"Yeah, I had water..." Holmes groaned again, this time clutching his right side. "I think they gave me water..."

"Who? Who, Holmes?" Watson blurted, shaking his friend possibly too forcefully. The detective let out another groan, his usually sharp vision being taunted by constant and erratic bursts of color. And with every burst, another sharp pop of pain.

"I... I don't remember..." Holmes slurred, not used to saying such a thing. "It was all so loud, so hot, musty, dirty..."

Watson blew air out of his nose. "Of _course_ it was at the boxing match!" he sighed, exasperated. "Look, Holmes, the chemicals they gave you to help you lose the fight were obviously in vain... But they're catching up to you." The doctor paused, feeling utterly useless. "And because I don't know what chemical they used, I'm afraid I can't give you anything to ease the pain."

Holmes felt as if the only thing grounded was his friend, and he gripped Watson's shirt fiercely, his whole body shaking like a leaf. Watson could feel his gold, skinny fingers near his neck, his shoulders, and he was happy to at least be of help, if only a little, to his friend.

Happy to be needed. Happy to be there.

His eyes still shut tightly, Holmes fought to keep the whole world steady. Watson was quiet, detached, without even looking at his partner he knew inside he was panicking. He had let his guard down. Watson could never even imagine Holmes ever doing such a thing. Soon, the colors began to fade into a deep ocean blue, and from blue they faded to black. Holmes felt his fingers slip off his friend's shoulders and the room was encased by the welcoming darkness. Sweet, unforgiving, darkness.

* * *

"_Damn_ it," muttered Watson as Holmes slipped out of consciousness and fell lose to the soft bed sheets underneath him once again. His face relaxed into a serene but utterly exhausted expression, and Watson felt a swell of sadness and affection as his partner lost grip on the world.

Holmes was a genius, there was no arguing that fact. Obviously his brain was an incredible machine. But when gin mixed with it, he fell to the level of any other alcoholic. Unless what someone offered him to drink when he was totally drunk literally _screamed_ poison, Holmes was likely to gulp it down without a second thought. When he was sober (or only slightly intoxicated), Holmes was magnificent when it came to recognizing poisons and other fatal concoctions. He could spot it from a mile away. Normally he didn't even consume anything offered to him by somebody else, unless it was necessary to keep cover. He preferred to drink out of his own flask.

Unfortunately, however, said flask tended to contain said alcohol, which slowly impaired his senses and caused him to forget only to consume the contents of his canteen and nothing else. And so the cycle continues.

While Holmes was still out, Watson found a somewhat clean glass (meaning that at least you could see the contents of the liquid _slightly_, when filled) and filled it with water. He set it on the bedside table next to Holmes's brunette head.

He was obviously concerned, of course, but over the years he had learned to remain calm and keep his head clear. Most importantly, not to let any pesky emotions get in the way. Watson and Holmes had an interesting friendship; they had, of course, grown closer through their work together. Homes was the free-spirited one, his actions based on logic but also (and mostly) on impulse. What he felt was the thing to do, whatever urge or hunch he had, he would act upon.

Watson, inevitably, was the complete opposite in most cases. He was more of the strong and silent type, more responsible when it came to unhealthy habits and substances, but also, less sociable.

Watson sighed as he looked at his best friend, who was now twitching slightly, looking uncomfortable. He must've lost track of time, just sitting there, thinking... This put Watson on alert a bit more: he began to scour the room, knocking around bottles and flasks, looking for possible remedies. He had figured the men at the ring, who typically gambled to and from the nearest bars, wouldn't have the money, resources, or brains to find a spectacular poison. But it would be easy for them to put something rancid, a common poisonous item, or even something like mold or the saliva of a person with a terrible virus, in Holmes's drink.

Watson stopped looking and realized that if this was the case, the only thing he could do was to wait for Holmes to wake up and give him castor oil, in the hopes of him vomiting up said substance. Watson was going to get whatever the hell it was out of his partner as soon as possible.

About an hour went by before Holmes stirred again. A low, pained groan emersed from his chapped lips, and after only ten seconds, his nimble fingers went flying to his temple once again. Images bombarded his brain in fast and short streams. Pages of notes, people he knew, articles of clothing, even, brands of alcohol, doors... Chemicals, textures, colors, skin.

"_Ughhh,"_ managed Holmes. Seven images exploded around him. A pause. Seventeen, next. He was painfully aware of every image. He was dizzy, disconnected, and hung-over. And almost every-other image was Watson. He was worried, shaking him, saying something.

The images of dry leaves, steamy water, tea... flashed constantly next to the image of Watson. It took the groggy Holmes almost two minutes to realize that the reoccurring Watson was reality. He was there, solid.

Was he going crazy?

His heartbeat pounded in his ears, and he was overheated, but cold, dizzy and lost. "Watson..." he slurred, leaning into the capable hands of his friend. Watson said something he couldn't understand. He could hear a voice, talking to him, but the sounds did not form words and the words did not form sentences.

Finally the Watson, that steady, solid Watson, disappeared. Holmes desperately searched the images attacking him but sound no base, not another soul around him. "Watson..." he repeated croakily, to no one in particular. His companion was fading like a stain from a bright light, from form to color to blackness again. A beat passed. Holmes was relatively aware of the clinking of bottles and glasses, the footsteps of Watson and his solid cane on the creaking floor of the apartment. Everything swam around him. Gibberish, people were talking backwards, they were whispering to him, singing him something.

Watson was there again, his icy blues clouded with worry still. He was talking to him again. He felt a strong hand hold his chin and tilt his head pack, pouring an unidentified liquid down his throat. He choked, but the hand held his head back, forcing the vile liquid to burn as he finally allowed it down his throat.

"Swallow, Holmes, come on, _swallow_..." Watson sighed, holding his friend's head back. Almost immediately after, Holmes's gag reflex kicked in again, and Watson grabbed him forcefully by the nape of the neck and stuck his head into a basin at the foot of the bed.

Watson's fingers tangled into the detective's dark locks, and when he was satisfied that Holmes had completely emptied his stomach he allowed him to slowly rise back up to a slumped sitting position, his hand on Holmes's slightly overheated and clammy neck still, lingering there.

"Watson..." Holmes whispered hoarsely, for what felt like the hundredth time. A bead of sweat fell down the bridge of his nose. His whole frame shook violently.

"...Thank you."

* * *

Reviews are loved! XOXO- Shannon


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